


Checkmate

by Syntaniel



Category: Sherlock Holmes (Downey films)
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-01
Updated: 2016-03-26
Packaged: 2018-04-24 08:52:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 3,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4913095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Syntaniel/pseuds/Syntaniel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Holmes knew the layout of the game from the first encounter with Moriarty. But even a genius like Holmes couldn't possibly have known where the game would take him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Opening Gambit

 

It is done. Watson was married. His future bound to Mary irrevocably. Holmes watched with pride and no little amount of regret as his friend escorted his bride down the lane. No going back now.

Watson's future happiness was now assured. But his past. That had lain with Holmes. And Holmes knew all too well how public that fact was. If the game was to begin in earnest, he must be sure that Watson was safe. Time to beard the lion in his den.

 

It was no surprise to find Moran waiting for him. The man's threats tasted sour in the sunlight and Holmes did not bother to address them. There was no point in persuading the minion; he needed to bargain with the master.

 

Moriarty's office was rather what Holmes had expected. The professor tended towards the grandiose, preferring the complicated to the simple, the ostentatious above all. Holmes noted all the detail, all the strewn books and papers, a decrepit window box, even as he heard himself confirm the fact of Watson's marriage. "And so, you must realize, that he is out of the game."

 

Moriarty cocked his head and Holmes knew he had made a tactical error. It was clear to anyone that Watson meant something to Holmes, but how much was never clear. And Moriarty was no blundering inspector. He knew, as soon as Holmes said the words. This was a piece of no mean value. More than just a pawn. A rook, a bishop, maybe a knight. Holmes stalked the room, cataloging every sight even as he wracked his brain for a suitable trade.

 

"I shall have to send them a suitable wedding present."

 

The words chilled Holmes' spine and sent his mind racing in a whole new direction. And then he saw the handkerchief. The spot of blood. Heard the words, "Tuberculosis... succumbed within moments..."

 

The stakes of the game had risen. Moriarty spoke of the destruction of all he loved and was. Holmes looked at him with dark eyes, his mind spiraling out hundreds of plans and following them to their outcomes. The stakes were high but Watson was still there and he had no choice but to play. He met Moriarty's gaze with all the solemness of a vow, this man's destruction now his sole goal, "If I could be assured of the latter, I would welcome the former with all I am." _If there is a price to pay, I will pay it, I swear._  


There was no longer any time to waste.


	2. The Rook is Taken

Watson caught his breath at the sight of the handkerchief. The bright red spot, too thin, too much, to be lipstick, glared against the white folds. And Holmes... He'd never seen that look on Holmes face before. Never before had Holmes avoided his eyes. But he would not look at Watson now. He cast a furtive glance at the doctor once, then twice, as he stood at the railing of the ship with suspiciously bright eyes. One last inhale of breath, one last whiff of perfume, Watson could see the pain on his face, and then it was gone. The white cloth fading into the ocean, the pain back behind an inscrutable mask.

A condolence died aborted in Watson's throat before it could reach his lips. He did not know what to say. Moriarty it must have been for there was a fierceness in Holmes' eyes that Watson did not recognize. He had known on the train that something had changed the game. Something had made Holmes sure that he could not keep Watson and Mary safe both. Someone had raised the stakes. But he had never expected this.

Watson had never cared for Irene. Never once. She had cost Holmes much over the years through his fascination with her. His infatuation. Never love. It couldn't have been love. It couldn't... She had hurt him and humiliated him and he had borne it for reasons Watson could never discern. As if he were desperate for something... Someone. So there was no love lost between Watson and Irene. But for that look on Holmes' face... Watson had no words for his friend. No words that could help that look. For that, Watson would never forgive her.


	3. The Knight Comes Into Play

 

The firelight flickered through the windows of the gypsy wagon casting shadows on the wall like primitive dancers against cave walls. It muted the colors of the gypsy world in a wreath of heady smoke and left Watson feeling vaguely drunk without having tasted a drop. Music snaked in the open door of the wagon – it had called Holmes out into the firelight. He never could resist someone else fiddling. Though Watson hoped for all their sakes no one lent him a bow.

 

Sim looked down at him from her throne, her face at once shadowed and wise. She considered him for a long moment before her voice snaked out like a trail of smoke, heavy with the warmth of rich wine, "Shall I tell your fortune, doctor?"

 

He started at the sound of her voice and almost reflexively began to say no but she had already reached down for his hand. Her thumb ran over the palm of his hand, feeling the rough touch of callouses where no doctor should have them. A solider before a doctor. A doctor before all. She traced the lines of his palm, intertwined and intersecting, before looking at him carefully again.

 

The dark shadows of the wagon pressed close as time passed unnoticed. Uncomfortable in the silence, Watson cleared his throat and took refuge in skepticism, "Isn't this the part where you tell me Mary and I shall be happy? And have many bouncing children?" Children. What kind of man was he for children? They'd never spoken of children, never dared. It was a gulf of silence neither wanted to broach. Sim considered him again and in her silence Watson found enough belief for a touch of fear. "What? What did you see?" _Why won't you speak?_  


 

"You are a man of choices, doctor." Her words dropped into the silence with a weight like stone. "Many choices made and still more left to make. And there is no recourse but to choose. I hope, that in the end, you have chosen regrets which you can live with." Her eyes told him that there were no options that did not involve regret.

 

But that was fine in the end, wasn't it? For what was life, but the opportunity to chose your regrets. And if you were lucky, very lucky, you ended up as she said, burdened only with regrets you could bear. Watson took a breath, unsure what he was going to say when a voice cut through the cabin. "Come Watson!" Holmes cried from outside. "Come see the dance! But whatever you do, do not drink!"

 

Whatever spell the gypsy had held was broken. Watson had made the only choice he could. There were no choices left to make. Watson grabbed for a bottle and took a swig of liquid that burned like gunpowder and smoke. Then he followed Holmes into the firelight.


	4. The Sacrifice Play

 

  
_Watson will come_ _._ Holmes knew it even as the darkness swallowed him up. It was insulting getting hit on the head from behind but he had known the outcome of his meeting with Moran before he stepped into the factory. It was why he had sent Watson to send the telegram. Why he had left the note. Watson will come. It was just a matter of time.

 

The world came back to Holmes as it always did - complete and whole, sparkling detail thrusting itself back into his mind. He could smell the gunpowder smoke of the factory, the tang of hot metal, the thick smell of offal from the nearby wharf, even as his higher senses returned to awareness. He was in a chair in the glass tower room as expected. Moriarty stood before him, a smugness to his expression that Holmes found most distasteful.

 

He didn't bother to listen to Moriarty's speech. He had known since that day in the Professor's office that, brilliant though he was, Moriaty had not escaped that more notable feature of megalomaniacs – the need to talk about their plans. Holmes watched Moriarty turn to the phonograph, knowing that soon it would start. Soon...

 

But he hadn't expected Moriarty to do the deed so soon, or to do it himself. So Holmes was not ready for the sharp pain of the fishhook as it bit into his shoulder. The tearing agony as he was wrenched into the air, the hook sinking deeper as his weight fell upon it. The world flashed in black and white as he dangled, desperately trying to get a grip on the hook, even as the sound of Die Fierelle filled the air. Try as he might, he could not get enough purchase and he felt the hook slide deeper towards the joint. Pain ran through him like a lance and, as Moriarty pushed his legs, Holmes abandoned thought and screamed.

 

 

Watson had been annoyed when he had first found the note. Annoyed and irritated that once again he was bringing up the rear. He was cold and tired and the munitions plant stank with the stench of gutted fish from the nearby wharf. But he knew that tone in Holmes' note. _If convenient, come immediately._ His pace quickened involuntarily as he spotted the tower looming over the yard. _If inconvenient, come anyway._ Holmes was in over his head. Again.

 

He rushed into the yard, forgetting about the guards, cursing himself when the German guard appeared. _There is no time for this!_  He went to his knees, waiting for his moment to rush the guard. He was readying for his chance when a shot split the night and the guard fell. Instinct more than thought had Watson dodging behind the closest cover to hand, a metal pillar, a support of some kind. Shots scattered the dust around him as Moran, it must be Moran, tried his luck again.

 

And then the music began. At first, Watson didn't understand. The music came from speakers attached to a smaller building in the shadow of the tower – the office it appeared. It was a logical place for Holmes to end up. Could it be a signal from Holmes?

 

Then he heard the screams.

 

Watson's blood turned to ice and he stumbled involuntarily as he dashed to the next raft of metal as the first scream echoed over the yard. For a moment, he held onto the hope that he was wrong, that it wasn't... and then the screams came again.

 

Red washed over Watson's vision even as he felt the blood drain from his face. Moran's next shot was uncomfortably close and Watson struggled to pull his thoughts together. A bullet answered his futile attempt to gauge his safe harbor even as another scream ripped through the music. Hold on, Holmes. He had to act. Hold on.

 

Blocking out the screams he would forever hear in his nightmares, Watson finally recognized the object dangling near him as earmuffs. Thick industrial earmuffs made for occlusion rather than warmth. Why would... it was only then he realized the platform he was on was a gun. Oh let it be a machine gun, anything to end this stalemate. Dreadfully, he realized all of a sudden that the screams had stopped, though the music played on, the notes tripping on in obscene happiness through the air.

 

  
_Please, no. Please_ _..._ His thoughts trailed off into a wordless prayer as he spied Moran on the tower behind the glass office, aiming the gun as best he could. And squeezed the trigger.

 

Watson lay stunned for a moment in the backlash. Canon? Who leaves a canon lying around loaded?Then he heard the creaking of bricks giving way. To his horror, the tower was collapsing – straight onto the building where Holmes had been. _No. no. It cannot... I cannot..._  


 

He did not wait, could not wait. Watson moved towards the rubble as quickly as he could. "Holmes?" _Holmes, please be here._ Brick dust filled his throat, choking the air out of his lungs. _Please be alive._ "Holmes?" There! A movement. Felt almost more than seen. Watson struggled over the rubble to it.

  


"It's always nice to see you, Watson."

 

Dark eyes glinted out from beneath a layer of dust and Watson inhaled sharply at the sight of the fishhook lodged in Holmes' shoulder. He could see the strain in Holmes' face even as his doctor's eyes examined the wound and he heard his voice say, "How did you know I would find you?" He could see the metal of the fishhook where it met the devastated skin and the snail trail wound where it had torn its way upward. Flecks of rust glinted on the shaft of the hook and training took over. Sotto voce, Watson murmured, "Brace yourself," even as his hands came up to grasp hook and shoulder both.

 

The hook came out more smoothly than Watson had expected, though the groan its extraction elicited from Holmes shot through his chest. But then amusement crossed Holmes' face chased by an exhaustion that made Watson's leg ache in sympathy. "You didn't find me old chap. You dropped a building on me."

 

Watson snorted in response even as he began to pull Holmes up. There was no time and they both knew it. No time to bind the wound, no time for alcohol, no time even to take a breath. If Holmes had survived, surely others had as well and collapsing a building had no call on subtlety. Watson brought him to his feet as gently as he could, taking as much of Holmes' weight as he could when his legs buckled. _Time to put faith in the gypsies. We have to get out of here._  


 


	5. The Knight Advances

 

The race out of the factory would forever be a blur to Watson. He remembered the weight of Holmes against his side, the unbelievable calmness of his friend's voice as he cued him to "Turn." The flash of the muzzle of a gun he did not remember picking up as he shot the men aiming at them.

  


Then the desperate chase through the forest. Gunfire and explosions. It was the dark field of war all over again. Only this time with trees instead of deserts. Fire burned across his side and Watson knew he'd been hit. But his stride never faltered as he kept Holmes in his sights. He paid Moran back for the graze in his side when Holmes handed him a gun but there was no time to stop, no time to be sure. The crash of mortars ripped through the air around them and fire burned at their heels. _We must..._  


 

 

Holmes moved as quickly as he could, finding motivation from the crash of artillery behind him. He had hoped for more time before the barracks of guards and workers had turned out. Always more time... But all he could do now was trust the gypsies and keep going. He saw the blood on Watson's shirt as he ran beside him and his heart pounded. _No. Not Watson_ _._ Then the mortar landed behind them and all thought was lost for precious moments.

 

It was the guns that brought Holmes back to himself, the guns exploding around him and the pain answering through him like a chorus. _Funny, I thought we had left the music behind_ _._ He recognized the nonsense in his thoughts, knew the danger it represented and forced himself to rise. Watson's dark shape was getting to his feet beside him and Sim was a few feet ahead. His ears rang and though he knew Watson called his name, he heard nothing but the roaring of the guns through the trees. They kept running. There was no choice now.

  


They reached the train just in time for the last of Holmes' strength was leaving him. Pain was filling his senses and even he could not be sure how much longer he could last. When Watson pushed him up into the train car, he could not find strength even to roll away from the door.

 

It was pain that roused him, hot and vicious and he jerked away before he heard Watson's voice. "Holmes, I have to clean the wound. You have to let me see." Hands that were more gentle than he deserved, steadied his shoulders and he tried to focus on his friend above him. A flask came into his vision even as Watson peeled his shirt away from his shoulder. "Holmes, I have to clean the wound." Watson said again and only belatedly did Holmes put the information together. As the alcohol hit his inflamed skin, mercifully, the pain became a roar and Holmes surrendered to the dark.

 

There was music again when Holmes came back to himself. A tune he could not name. _Sim_ _..._ And a soft hand stroking his hair. He knew he should struggle to awaken, knew he should push himself more, but he had no strength left. He managed to get his eyes to open, a half lidded view of the world still shrouded in greys. Watson was in front of him, his hands moving deftly with needle and thread on the wound on his side. Even from where he lay, Holmes could see the wound was a graze and one the doctor had already well tended. _Watson,_ he thought wearily as exhaustion welled up in him again. _He's all right._ Against his will, Holmes' eyes closed again as the gypsy tune filled his ears. _Well done then..._  


 

"He's not breathing!"

 

The urgency of the voice made Watson's head jerked up even as his hands severed the thread they were holding. "What?"

 

"He's not breathing!" Sim's voice was desperate and Watson saw Holmes' head loll in her hands even as she spoke. His heart stuttered as he rushed to Holmes' side, pulling his head down the floor and ordering Marco to hold up his feet. _No no no. Not now, not here. Not after..._ "No." No heartbeat met his fingers, no breath touched his cheek. "No, Holmes you will not do this." Watson had no idea if he was speaking aloud or not. Nor did he care. He pounded on Holmes' chest. _You will not leave me. "_ I will not let you go. Do you hear me? I will not make this easy on you, you selfish bastard." _Don't you dare go where I can't follow_ _._ "Holmes!"

 

Sim was pulling at his hands, trying to tell him it was ok. Watson blinking back tears even as he continued to work. _Ok? How can you say that? Nothing will ever be ok again._ "Holmes." He pleaded, his voice breaking on the word. But still there was no response. _How could he?_ How could he not have seen this? Watson could not believe it. Could not believe Holmes was dead before him and he could do nothing.

  


A wedding present. Holmes' voice rang out in his mind and Watson gave a start. Adrenaline... Perhaps... He dashed for his coat, grabbing the padded case, somewhat amazed the vial had survived. One last desperate chance. Please _Holmes..._  His hands moved swiftly, plunging the injection into the heart, forcing the concoction back into the breast of its maker. He scarcely dared breathe as he waited. And then Holmes opened his eyes on a gasp.


	6. Fischer Delay

 

 

Switzerland was beautiful at night, Watson acknowledged as he entered the suite of rooms Mycroft had wrangled for them. Even in the middle of the night it seemed the elder Holmes could work some miracles. _Speaking of miracles..._  


 

Holmes was standing at the balcony, gazing out over the mountains. Even at a distance, Watson could see the slump of his shoulders, could see that he leaned heavily on the doorjamb. "Holmes, you should rest." He called, but Holmes did not turn. Watson walked over slowly, through the fragile air. "Holmes," he said gently, placing a hand on the uninjured shoulder.

 

Holmes started but did not turn. "It's not finished, Watson."

 

Watson gave a half hearted smile. "I know you prefer not to sleep during cases but your body needs to heal."

 

There was something desolate in Holmes' eyes, something frightening. "I must plan. He cannot get away. It must be done properly." _Or you will be the one that pays. I cannot bear that, Watson. I cannot._  Holmes swayed on his feet even as the thoughts burned across his eyes.

 

Moving swiftly, Watson slipped his arm around Holmes' waist before the man fell. Guiding him over to the couch, Watson laid him down as gently as possible. “Rest, Holmes. You'll be of no use if you keel over.” Holmes eyes burned as they jerked to Watson, something almost betrayed in them. But Watson was relentless, smoothing hair out of his face and tucking a blanket over his legs. “I swear I will wake you in a few hours. But rest.”

 

A wave of something passed over Holmes' face, too swiftly for Watson to identify. “Two hours, Watson. No more.”

 

His eyes bored into Watson until the other man nodded. “You have my word on it.

 


	7. Taking the King

  


 

This is the last gambit. Holmes' mind raced. Heightened by pain, by desperation, by the sure and certain knowledge that this was his last chance. He could see the fight as Moriarty spoke, every frame of it playing out in his mind to the inevitable end. Watson. Because of course, Watson was on his way. Holmes' every heartbeat echoed that fact. Watson had never failed him before; he would not fail him now.

 

And Holmes could not then fail him in return. So few choices. So few chances. And only one option that left him sure Watson would live. Holmes shrugged off the blanket and made his move.

 

Grappling, pain rushing through his body like lightning, Holmes felt the cool strength of the marble at his back. He could feel his muscles giving out, feel the blackness encroaching on his vision. _It must be now._ His left hand tangled in Moriarty's sleeve as he prepared to make his last move. Pushing with all the strength he had left, Holmes felt the balance shift, felt Moriarty push against him and they began to tumble over the rail.

 

Too late, too soon, Watson was there. Too late for Holmes to stop. Too soon to spare Watson a sight Holmes would not have wished on him for all the world. Holmes gaze softened as he saw his friend, even as Watson's face turned to horror. And Holmes clung to that last image of a well loved face as the wind rushed around him, sucking the air from his lungs. _I'm so sorry, Watson._  



End file.
